


There's a secret in this place (closeness is a mask-like gimmick)

by charons_boat



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Being nursed back to health, Blood Exchange, M/M, Painting, artist!Ten, demon!johnny, getting sick, human version of johnny, summoning demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26383198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charons_boat/pseuds/charons_boat
Summary: Sometimes the best source of inspiration is a demon.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Kudos: 26





	There's a secret in this place (closeness is a mask-like gimmick)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NcityStories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NcityStories/gifts).



> for callie!! say happy birthday callie!!!! i hope u like sorry it's not a pac rim au like i wanted to do
> 
> tw for blood mentions and sickness

It's dark outside, darker than it's ever been. The clouds obscure the moonless sky and seem even to force the streetlamps to dim their light. It's darker inside my tiny apartment than I've ever dared to let it be, for I've always believed in demons and monsters, and the story that there are things hiding under your bed and in your closet. My friends, and even my parents who'd told me the stories in the first place, had begun at some point to try and tell me that it wasn't real, that it's always just been a story, but I couldn't believe them.

If it were my decision, I'd have made the room bright with my arrival, but this demon must have wanted it to be black as pitch. I'd lit candles at some point, but it seems like they're unable to pierce the total darkness. I hold my hand in front of my face, but I can't see it at all. I drop it and sigh, and I can't help it when my brows furrow. _Where's he at?_ Just when I felt that it was taking far too long, the room fills with this strange pressure and my ears pop.

"Hello, Ten." The voice is smooth, like silk against my ear, but it unnerves me too. I can't help but whimper, and my eyes kill with tears. This moment is something I've been questioning for weeks, something I've hoped and prayed that I've been wrong about my entire life. "You wished for inspiration?" I think that I must be imagining the softness in the voice, the tender care that can't possibly be held in the voice of the demon I might be staring straight in the face. I know that we're face-to-face when the demon speaks again because I can feel his breath on my face, although it's so faint that it almost seems he's holding his breath. "I hope that my figure is inspiration enough for a painting as you wish to do," he murmurs. His breath is still faint and reminds me of sitting in the car on hot days with the vent angled so that the air barely hit the edge of my face, and it smells like burning wood and cinnamon. My own breath feels to be stolen from me when the darkness clears from the room just enough to reveal the demon.

He stands in the middle of the summoning circle, and I can see in my peripherals that candles are still burning. The demon has tanned skin, but it's also flecked with gold; the candles burning beneath him bounce off the miniscule flecks embedded in his skin and makes them shine brightly, though only for a few seconds before the flames flicker and catch on another few flecks somewhere else. The demon's face is all angles and softened planes, and he has big, seafoam green eyes that hardly look real because of how beautiful they are. They're like two gems set in his face, catching the candlelight and incorporating that golden glow into their own being. Strands of black and gold hair fall into the demon's face, and he blows them away. His big, heart-shaped lips purse up and relax with the motion, and I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

The demon straightens up and runs a big hand through his hair, getting caught among the veritable rat's nest of tangles. His face scrunches up in annoyance at getting caught on the tangles, and a tear falls down my face. When the first tear falls, it's followed almost immediately by another, and then a third; I sniffle, trying to hold back the tears, and the demon snaps his eyes down from his hair, staring at me with concern so palpable that it fills the entire room. The dark dissipates completely, _finally_ , and he steps forward. He reaches a hand out, and his face fills with despair when he can't extend it past the circle.

"How," I ask, no, _demand_ , of the demon. "Or, or _why_? Is it even possible for you to care so much about me like this? When I've never known you? When you didn't even want to be here in the first place?" His lips curl up into a smile, like a flower blooming, and it brings more tears to my eyes because it's the most genuine smile I've seen in years. The first real smile in who knows how long, and it's from a demon.

"My name is Johnny," he tells me quietly. "And I care for everyone who brings me forth. I've inspired works of art and acts of courage, small tokens of love and great signs of devotion, and still, after thousands of years, every one of them has been special and unique." He chuckles softly and turns his face to the floor. He scratches at his neck before resting his hand on his nape and looking up at me once more. "For example, this will be the first time I've ever had a painting made of me."

In the end, I agree to let the demon stay in my apartment with me while I paint him and promise that afterwards, I'll let him take half of the blood in my body as payment. Strangely, he insists that I let him stay afterwards, though only long enough for him to nurse me back to health after his payment; I agree, if only so that he'll be quiet about it.

The weeks that follow are a blur of sketching and painting, and I can barely recall any of it. I do remember the rare quiet moments, like drinking coffee and eating donuts with him one morning while we watched some children's show. Johnny is much taller than I am, so I end up buying a few pairs of sweatpants for him, though he almost entirely refuses shirts and instead walks around with a blanket clasped firmly about his shoulders. I recall the demon being a wonderful model, and I can't help but question whether this is truly the first time he's ever been painted like this.

The painting itself is better than anything else I've ever created, and I nearly cry everytime I look at it once it's finished. Johnny takes my blood while I sleep, and I wake up feeling worse than I ever have in my life. Just opening my eyes takes far more energy than I expect, and breathing is a chore that exhausts me. Johnny sits by my side for days, feeding me soup and making sure I'm always covered by plenty of blankets. The feeling of intense cold was something I didn't expect either. I remember being asked questions, though I can't recall them or my answers.

I wake up one day with my headache gone, the warmth returned to my body, and neither Johnny nor my painting anywhere I can immediately see. When I go to get out of the bed, my legs don't shake. But Johnny is gone along with the painting, and all that's left is a note and a newspaper on my bedside table, and a check for more money than I ever thought I'd have. The newspaper has an article about my painting in it, telling how the artist had popped up out of nowhere and went to an auction, selling the piece to a man who, inexplicably, looked exactly like the subject of the painting. The artist had reportedly disappeared after the auction, but the man who'd bought the painting was still looking for the short noiret who went by the mononym of *Ten*. With shaking hands, I set the newspaper on the table, resolutely ignoring the check as I grabbed the note.

_Ten,_

_I am gone by now, but I took your form long enough to sell your painting for you. I only vaguely expected to meet your world's version of myself at the auction, but it seems fitting that he bought the painting, because I think you did an unreal job on the painting. As humans say, I believe you more than did me justice: you made me look almost a god, I think._

_The man who bought your painting is named Suh Youngho. Go find him, Ten. Paint him as you did me, and you will never again have to live in this cramped apartment we first met in. I'll make sure to warn the demons and monsters away from your closets and the undersides of your beds; I hope you rest easy, Ten, knowing that I am protecting you. You will never have to fear the monsters again, and you can walk through the dark nights with no fear._

_Our time together has ended, and if you wish me forgotten, simply burn this note. Do not linger on my memory, for I cannot come back to you, but keep the memories if you wish. I left them for you because I know I shall keep my own for as long as I can, and I will thumb them over and look back at them until they are worn and tattered, and even when I can no longer recall your face or your pretty eyes, I will remember your name as the one that belongs to the first man to ever paint me, and one of the first to show me another new kind of love._

_With love from beyond the aeons,_   
_Johnny_

* * *

  
I cannot explain to Youngho why I painted his face before I ever even knew he was alive, but I feel as though I would've been able to had I not watched a pale piece of paper with finely scripted words upon it shrivel up in the heat of a fire. Everytime he asks, the smell of burning wood and cinnamon floods my nostrils and I tear up just a bit. I always say I cannot recall, though perhaps it was a dream I first saw him in. He always hums and answers me with a kiss, and I suppose a dream is good enough for the both of us.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twt [@sunwooseok_](https://twitter.com/sunwooseok_)  
> i luv comments oooh


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